Don't Let Me Go

It wasn't like I planned for this to happen. I was perfectly content with my not so glamorous life in the Meat Packing district in New York. It wasn't like I asked my boss to fly to London to interview the then just starting out, indie sensation. To be honest, I hadn't even listened to his music a lot. My roommate Emma was the huge fan and the only reason I'd even known his name.

I'd always prided myself on my professionalism. When I met Alex Turner last year, I managed to keep it together enough and not throw up on his shoes. Barely. I was surprised when my boss agreed I'd be the one to fly the redeye to Heathrow in time to barely make it to the show, for I was just the lowly receptionist. I guess you could say I was surprised when he turned to me and casually said, "Sophia you can write, correct?" I was shocked he even knew my name, but managed to choke out an "Yes".

"Great," he said to his personal assistant. "Sophia can go. Book her a flight for this morning. That ok?"

Not even knowing where I was going or what I was doing, I immediately agreed. I had been working at the magazine for about two months and my boss had spoken about eight words to me total. It was his assistant who explained I'd be jet setting across the pond in order to meet Britain's rising star. The next thing I knew I was walking into some small pub in good old London. It smelt of stale beer and the floors were sticky. But being a poor college student in New York City, I had seen worse. I was instructed to find a Morgan McNeal when I arrived; the only identifier I had for her was that she would be wearing a blue dress and had blonde hair. I wandered through the pub, my one, tiny bag packed slung over my shoulder.

Finally, I managed to find a wispy blonde, who I assumed to be Morgan. She looked to be a few years older than me and was very pretty, but had a seemed to have a permanent frown on her face.

“Hi,” I said when I reached her. “I’m Sophia Clarke. I work for Marshall Burman in New York. I’m here to-“

“Oh, you’re late.” she turned. “You were supposed to do the interview before the set, but now you’ll just have to wait till after.”

“That’s fine.” I sighed, a little put off by her blatant rude tone. I may be living in New York, but after growing up in a tiny town in Georgia, I had always been taught to be polite even when you didn’t want to. “I can wait.”

“Meet me by the back door over there,” she motioned with her finger to a door in the back corner of the bar “after the set.”

I agreed, and headed over to the bar. I ordered a drink. Surprisingly, the set was pretty decent. I may have even liked his music, even though he definitely played to the “I’m so hot, but I’ll pretend that I don’t notice”. And he was hot. I know understood why Emma had been obsessing over this guy. By the time the set was over, I was about two drinks in, which probably wasn’t the best idea considering I was the world’s worst lightweight. Three or four drinks and I would get pretty smashed. But two seemed to calm my nerves a little bit. I watched as he sang his final song for the night and then I met Morgan by the door, as instructed, and she led me through the door, which turned out to be a dressing room or sorts. And there he was, now shirtless, lounging on the couch, drinking a beer lazily.

“Harry,” said Morgan, then gesturing to me. “This is Sophia, she’s here for the Burman interview.”

“You’re not Marshall Burman,” he spoke, his voice taking on a husky tone, due to the fact he had been singing the past hour and a half.

“I’m not,” I said, attempting to ignore my sweaty palms and act confident. “Marshall couldn’t come so he sent me instead.”

“Lucky me,” he quipped. “Want a beer?”

“No thank you,” I said, attempting to remain professional. “I just have a few questions for you, then I’ll be off.”

For the next ten minutes, I asked him the list of questions Marshall’s assistant had given me. Apparently, whoever was supposed to do this interview had done most of the work; I just had to read out the questions. He answered them with a flirty smile and a sarcastic tone. We finished the interview soon enough and I stood up.

“So what’d you think of the show? You gonna write that I was complete shit?” he asked, taking another swig of the show.

“Can’t reveal my secrets,” I replied with a smirk, holding up my notebook.

“This your first night in London?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“First night ever out of America actually.” I answered.

“No way. What are you doing next?”

“Probably head back to my shitty hotel and will try to get some sleep until my flight tomorrow,” I laughed.

“That’s no fun. Let me show you what all the natives due after midnight. I’m going to meet some mates at a bar. Come along.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I managed, trying to ignore the part of me that was screaming GOooooo!

From the next look he gave, throwing his back in a laugh, I should have known I was in trouble. I had heard girls talking about boys that could crack a smile at you and make your knees weak, but I had yet to actually encounter one. My past boyfriends had been nice, yet positively boring. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to let him show me around, but I’m assuming it had something to do with the amount two vodka sodas and his dimples (read: he was hot and I was feeling a little tipsy).

Three hours later and I was positively wasted. Two pubs later and I had nosedived over the line between tipsy and completely intoxicated. We were stuck in the back of a cab, headed back to my hotel.

“So tell me Sophia Clarke, do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t,” I blushed, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his eye contact.

“I’m assuming you’re someone from the south?”

“Georgia. Born and raised. Moving to New York practically killed my parents.”

“Date a boy on the baseball team?” he laughed. “Prom queen?”

“Football team. And no, I didn’t.”

“What’d you really think of my music?”

“You’re pretty talented, though you definitely know it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, you have way too much confidence. So what? You’re really hot. There’s tons of hot guys in the world and I don’t even want to think about how many girls you’ve probably taken advantage of in order to gain some inspiration.” I drunkenly rambled.

“Well, Sophia aren’t you blunt,” he laughed.

“I’m so sorry, did I just say that out loud?” I groaned, leaning back into my seat.

“You’re one of a kind,” he laughed, nudging me with his arm. “Just wait to the song I write about you.”

“It better be good,” I closed my eyes.

“Oh, it will be."

"I’m a big music snob. Chances are if it’s not-”

“Sophia?” he broke my train of thought, interrupting me.

“Yeah?” I opened my eyes to face his.

“Shut up,” and with that, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. After a few moments, he pulled away. “Oh man, that song is gonna be so good.”

“Harry?” I smirked. He responded mumbling a yes. “Shut up.”

And with that, I broke my cardinal rule of no musicians and pressed my lips back to his. He quickly gave his address to the taxi driver, who shook his head, yet switched roots. Next thing I knew, we were at his apartment. I wont spare you with the details (read: I can’t remember most of them). I managed to wake up three hours before my flight was set to leave, quietly climbing out of bed. I decided to leave a note on his kitchen table.

Better get to work on that song,
Sophia

Washing my face and changing in the airport bathroom, I groaned as I looked myself in the mirror. I assumed that this affair with the indie Brit would be long forgotten soon enough. Oh man, was I wrong.